Shaped out of force, and unkind nature.
The habitation of man long gone.
Ground rendered by reek and mire.
Land no one tills, no one to disturb
the grazing sheep.

They have no need to wonder,
who or what created this beauty.
Artifice in the containment of the ground,
all attempts to impose order are lost,
yet add to the view.

In the distance other hills,
their tops crowned
with lesser glories of stone,
are forgotten.

The wave that will never break,
stands testament to timelessness.
Once, when young and foolish,
(as opposed to old and foolish,
as I stand here now,)
I climbed here.
Hands sore, safe in the artifice
of my encumbrance,

Dragging ropes and rocks.
A route too short deserve a name, but named.
To reach the summit no glory,
yet not to not reach the summit unthinkable.

But now as I walk the easy way up,
to the top I wonder why.
At the time it all seemed
to have meaning.

I live in hope it still does,
as for trivial things
we still quit grave affairs.
And the wonders of becoming,

the permeance of the memory,
the sounds of the far
distant laughter,
are ends in themselves.

They remain important beyond words.
At least to me.
I wish I believed in a god,
then I’d have someone to thank
for all this beauty.

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